


Differences

by spinalchord



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: F/F, F/M, I’m mixing book and movie canon for everyone to survive, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Relationships are pushed to the back burner, The Timeline for Teen Wolf is all wonky with Allison but just ignore that, Thomas is Stiles Stilinski, WICKED is shut down and everyone settles in Beacon Hills, also, also everyone’s in Beacon Hills because, and just takes like 7 kids, there are so many disappearances and murders WICKED was like ‘fuck it we ball’, this is about FRIENDSHIP yall, trauma aftermath
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:40:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23911714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinalchord/pseuds/spinalchord
Summary: WICKED is gone. And unfortunately, they left a lot of traumatized, technically missing kids with identity issues to the care of the federal government.
Relationships: Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Malia Tate/Kira Yukimura, Melissa McCall/Sheriff Stilinski, Newt (Maze Runner)/Stiles Stilinski, Newt/Thomas (Maze Runner)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 356





	1. Chapter 1

Thomas woke in a hospital. Warily, he glanced around: it was nice, clean but not sterile. There was a table next to his bed, made of metal, and a chair next to that that looked uncomfortable and hard. There was a photo of some strange landscape by the door, high trees and very large plants and water spilling over a cliff.

He tensed as the door opened, and a man walked in: he had on a white coat with blue scrubs on underneath.

Thomas, heart thumping painfully against his chest, grabbed the metal pole his I.V. was attached to and pointed it at the man.   
  


The man, presumably a doctor, raised his hands, dropping his clipboard. Thomas kept the pole level as he asked, “Where is Janson? Did he bring me here?” The doctor shook his head. “We don’t have a Janson on staff,” he said.

Thomas felt his face twist. No Janson? Maybe he was finally out of their grasp. He jabbed the pole, in warning. “You’re not WICKED?” Now it was the doctor’s turn for his face to twist, “I’m sorry, sir, but no. You were brought here from the aftermath of, uh, of a raid on WICKED. They found hundreds of missing children, and you were one of them.

Thomas felt his hands slacken, and distantly he felt the thump of the pole against his legs. He was free? But he shook his hope away before it settled in.   
  
  
“Where am I now?” The doctor breathed a sigh of relief, ducking down to gather his papers. “Your in Seattle - all of the survivors are here to treat the extensive trauma that was endured. Including you,” he said pointedly, gesturing to his abdomen.

Thomas, looked down, and patted his side. There a sharp stab of pain when he did, but there wasn’t blood gushing through the hospital gown so he figured he was good. He remembered the wound, now, Janson bloodied and half-way to the Gone, shooting at him and Teresa as they scrambled through the crumbling building.

Teresa. Her name brings a bolt of longing. He doesn’t know if she’s alive or dead.   
  


He musters up some courage to ask,“Hey, doctor, is there a girl here? Very pale, kinda tall, black hair, blue eyes? Burns? The doctor paused, eyes flickering as he seemed to be trying to remember. He smiled as he grasped what he was looking for. “Oh, yes, she was brought in. She’s just down the hall in room 129.”

Thomas’s chest tightened even more. Maybe, if Teresa was alive, could Newt be too? He had been fighting the Flare the last time he saw him, and then he had left for the Cure, and then Janson ambushed them.

  
  
Swallowing thickly, he asked another question, although this one appeared heavier to the doctor. “Is there also a boy here who was succumbing to the Flare? Tall, skinny, blond hair and brown eyes?”

The doctor smiled reassuringly at Thomas. “He was one of the first we treated. Turns out, WICKED had the cure all along: after all, they were the ones who engineered the Flare, why wouldn’t they have an antibody.”

He noticed that Thomas had gone rigid. “They created the Flare?” He asked slowly. The doctor righted the pole across his legs and adjusted the bags of liquid that were dangling. “Son, they made everything up. There were no solar flares, there was no Scorch, there were no Cranks and whatnot. Everything was fake.” He patted Thomas’s shoulder and bustled away, but paused before he was fully out of the door. “Your friend, the boy- he’s doing really good. He’s been asking for you. Room 137.” And with that, he was out.   
  
  


Thomas felt as if his center of gravity was off kilter. He was giddy as he slipped out of bed, thankful the doctor removed the I.V. as he padded to the door.

Poking his head out, he stepped out and closed the door with a click. Hope heavy in his heart, he hurried down the hall, glancing at numbers as he passed them: 132, 133. He sped up. 136, 137. The fateful number.

Knocking frantically, he pushed at the handle and it opened. Inside, he sagged with relief as he saw him. Newt. He looked hundreds of times better that when he saw him last, although he was gaunt and his hair was disgusting. He cracked an eye as Thomas rushed to capture him in a hug, and Newt wheezed as Thomas squeezed him. “Hey, Tommy.”  
  


“Jesus Christ, Newt, I thought you were dead.” Newt laughed, and it tinkled through Thomas’s ears, rusty and stale.

“Me too, thought I was in bloody heaven when they brought me here and I was me again.” Thomas pulled back, and felt a grin biting at his cheeks. “Everyone’s okay, or at least everyone that was alive is okay. No mortal wounds.” Newt nodded. “I know, Sonya and Aris have been visiting everyone. Spreading the good news,” he laughed again, and it sounded more like him this time. 

They talked for a long time, remembering the Glade, and their, albeit brief, times with the Right Arm.

“I wonder..” Thomas started when conversation had paused. “What are they going to do with us once we all recover? We can’t stay here forever.” He grasped Newt’s hand, carefully. “I think that they’ll send us back to our families. From before.”

Newt squeezed his fingers, leveling a small smile at him. “We’ll figure it out. I’ll be shucked if the thing to tear us apart was that _._ ”Thomas just squeezed back, silently, but he didn’t need to say anything.


	2. Figuring it Out

Thomas packed his, admittedly scarce, belongings in the plastic bag they had given him. He was going to re-meet his father today, and butterflies brushed against his stomach whenever he thought about it. What would he even say to his day? ‘Sorry for getting kidnapped?’ 

He heaved a sigh, and turned to Teresa, who was lounging in the hard chair like a cat, and Minho, who was sprawled on his bed with his eyes closed, hands fiddling with the adjustment remote, and mouth chattering away about something to Teresa, who looked intrigued and was chattering back.

“Hey, you two, do I look presentable?” He said the last word with flourish, spinning to give them the full view of his outfit- the hospital gown.

Teresa just grinned “Sexy as always,” she bit back, and Minho cackled as she threw the clothes the hospital gave them at him. “You can’t see your dad in a dress, Tommy,” he crowed. Thomas batted his eyelashes at him, “But it accentuates my figure.” Teresa waved her hand, like she was physically batting away the words between them. “Blah blah blah, whatever. Stop chit-chatting and go get changed. Shoo!” She pushed him towards the side bathroom with her foot, and Thomas held his hands up in defeat. 

When he emerged in the plain jeans that were a bit too big and the tee-shirt that had the hospital’s logo on it, Minho clapped.

“So he can clean up,” he mock-whispered to Teresa, who rolled her eyes. Thomas punched him in the arm as he went to pick up his bag. Minho was already in his mandated clothes, and Teresa had on a hoodie as well as her clothes, branded with the hospital logo and her hair clean, if not still a little ratty. Bandages were visible under the hood, around her throat and collarbone.

Thomas steeled himself, and gave them a grimacing smile. ”See you on the other side.” Teresa and Minho both gave a salute, and Thomas returned it before marching out.

He met up with Newt before approaching the visiting room. “So what’s the plan?” Thomas prompted Newt, who rolled his eyes and cupped his hands like a beggar. “Please take me in, Mister Stilinski, I’m just a poor bloody orphan!” He said in a whiny voice.

Thomas punched him in the arm. He’d been doing that a lot recently. “Got the gist, but the product was rather lackluster,” he said, rather grimly. Newt laughed, then patted his arm, seeming to sense the nerves that coiled, tight, around in Thomas’s stomach.

“Lighten up, it’ll be fine. If worst comes to worst, I’ll run away and find you. Minho and Teresa are in the same town as you, why not make it a party?” He said with a little smile. Thomas nodded, and fixed his stare ahead to the visitation room. “Ready?” He asked. “Ready,” Newt replied.   
  


There were two people in the room, waiting, a middle aged man and a boy around Thomas’s own age. Thomas hung back, wary.

Newt pushed him forward, to which he flashed him a panicked look. Newt shrugged, and just gestures him towards the man, who jumped up at the sight of Thomas. The man rushed forward, and Thomas tensed, but the man only wrapped his arms around him gently and cried little leaking tears. Thomas awkwardly put his arms up, and pat his back, but he felt like he belonged in this man’s embrace. It felt right.

The man, his dad, drew back and wiped his tears away. He was wearing a tan police officer’s uniform, and had an off-kilter badge. “Jesus christ, kid, you got taller,” he said, and then hugged him again.

The boy behind him held back. He had a crooked jaw and very dark eyes that he used to look at Thomas hopefully. When his dad pulls back, Thomas feels a little lost. “How long was I gone?” He asked faintly. His dad’s face pulls. “Two years.” “You went missing the beginning of sophomore year,” the boy chimes in, and pulls Thomas into his own hug. “We thought you were dead, Stiles.”

Thomas frowns against the boy’s shoulder. “What’s a Stiles?” He asked, confused, and the boy’s face falls. “You don’t remember?” He asked, pulling away, then makes a little noise in his throat, like a dog whining _._

“WICKED stole my memories,” he says. “And you haven’t answered me. What’s a Stiles?” His dad just smiles, a little sadly. “It was your name.” Thomas looks, vaguely confused, at Newt, who returns his gaze unfalteringly. He jerks his head, barely perceptible, and mouths ‘talk to him.’

Thomas releases a breath. His dad seemed to have caught the interaction. “Who‘s that, son?” He asks, following his gaze to Newt. “A friend. We were together through the trials.” His father seems to get it, and his gaze goes a little pained.

”Where is he going to live?” He asks. Thomas meets his gaze, and his father is so sad to see wariness in them. “Back in Britain, his parents are dead. I don’t know what to do,” he adds quietly. “He’s my best friend.”

The boy, probably his friend from before, looks a little pained at that. His father heaves a heavy sigh, his eyes going soft. “Well, son, we do have a guest room. Is he a nice boy, at least?” Thomas lets put a shaky breath, and tips his head toward his dad’s shoulder, something that seems like muscle memory.

“He’s one of the best people I’ve met, at least in this life.” His dad pats his back. “Alright, Stiles, how about we go talk to him, straighten this all out.”


	3. Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to Beacon Hills, population: dwindling:(

The first thing Thomas noticed, when they drove past the little dingy sign that declared, ‘Welcome to Beacon Hills!’ was the crossed out population, the red numbers below them cramped, crossed out over and over again.

He ran a hand over the glass, where the red numbers were, and felt vaguely surprised. This is where he came from? Some gristly murder town? Newt leaned over to look at the sign as they passed, and he let out a low whistle.

“That’s grim, don’t you think?” He said, turning to face Thomas and leaning back into his own seat. “A little like a warning,” Thomas replied, and settled into his seat a bit uncomfortably.   
  


The house the car drove up to was nice, two stories. A little weathered, but Thomas felt a pang of familiarity when he looked hard. He decided to ignore the weird, almost longing-like feeling in his chest and stepped out of the car, helping Newt out as well.

His dad smiled. “Welcome home, Stiles.” His voice sounded thick. Thomas gave a small smile back. “Thank you,” he said, rather truthfully.   
  


His dad unlocked the front door with a familiar click (why is it familiar? Something in the tone of the mechanism makes Thomas’s heart settle), and the lights are on, and there are people in there. They spin as the door swings open, and his dad runs a hand over his face. “What are you kids doing here?” He asks, and he sounds tired.

Thomas is tense and ready, Newt behind him exactly the same. A girl with strawberry blonde (Why not red? Thomas asks himself, but he doesn’t know and it doesn’t change) hair and a floral dress says, “We wanted to see Stiles.”

All together, there’s eight people; a girl with honey brown hair and an intense, inscrutable expression on her face, an Asian girl with black hair who looks a bit lost, Scott, an angry looking boy with blonde hair and blue eyes, a sweeter looking boy with brownish blonde curls and blue eyes, the strawberry blonde girl, who looks vaguely annoyed, an older, surly man with grey-green eyes and stubble who’s glowering, and a brunette girl with brown eyes and some weird gloves, who looks disinterested and yet intensely focused. 

Thomas is off put by how they all seem to be staring at him. He swallows. “Who are you?” And he hears Scott say, “told you,” to the brunette girl. “Stiles,” the strawberry blonde girl starts. “It’s us.”

Thomas braces himself. “Who are you?” He asked again, and the Asian girl says, hesitantly, “Do you need us to introduce ourselves?” Thomas nods. “Well, I’m Kira,” she says. The strawberry blonde wets her lips, before saying softly “Lydia.”

The angry boy raises his hand. “I’m Liam,” and he doesn't seem so angry anymore. The curly haired boy says, “I’m Isaac.” The glowering man says, rather briskly, “Derek Hale.” Scott looks sheepish. “You know who i am,” he says a little guiltily, as if he was sorry that he’d already introduced himself.

The brunette girl standing next to Scott smiled a little. “I’m Allison,” she says, and she sounds kind. The intense girl stares at him. “Malia.” She says.

Newt steps forward. “Hello, you all, I’m Newt,” and he shook hands with the closest, who was Allison.   
  


Lydia looks like she just arrived at a funeral. “What happened to you?” She asked mournfully, stares at him with a strange glint in her eyes. 

Thomas cleared his throat, awkward, and said, “Well, I guess we have a lot to talk about.”

And so he talked. He told the, about WICKED, about how they stole and fabricated his memories, about the Gladers and the Greivers, about escaping into what they thought were salvation, about the compound they almost starved in, about the Scorch and the cranks and the Right Arm. About the Last City. About waking up in the hospital. Newt chimes in at crucial parts, to fill in the gaps between his account and Thomas’s.

They are silent for a very long time, and then Scott runs a hand over his mouth, a strangely adult action, and then says “I’m sorry,” and then no more.


	4. Settling In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late chapter!

After the icy, mournful reintroductions of his old friends, Thomas tried to steer clear of them. He spent most of his time with Newt, Minho, and Teresa out and about in town, or in the forest.

Today they were in the woods, with gloom setting in as the sun sank. Teresa was sitting on a flat, mossy stump, Minho on the crunchy leaves, and Newt and Thomas pressed together on a log. Teresa was talking softly, watching dead leaves curl and blacken as she lit them on fire with a BIC lighter.

“It’s just so weird that they were, I don’t know, fake? Like it obviously wasn’t real, they never saved me from some Flare Town, but..” she trailed off, sighing as she lit another leaf and watched the ashes drift down.

When she didn’t say anything else, Minho rolled his shoulders, popping the joints. “It is kinda fucked up. Like, I remember running through these crank cities as a kid with my, I guess made up, parents. I remember WICKED taking me after they both succumbed. But that’s apparently not real, because my parents are fine, and I have a sister.”

Thomas felt himself nodding. “I remember my parents, before my mom sent me to WICKED. My dad went crazy quickly, at night I could hear him laughing, and whenever I saw him he had ripped out clumps of his hair and scratched up his arms and throat. I guess my mom didn’t want me to see that.” He paused. “It’s so weird, I still remember her face. Maybe they was just some actors.” Thomas looked away, and so Newt took his place in the silence.

“I remember living in the basement of some big, industrial building, we had to board up the windows every night. The day WICKED came, it snowed.” His face was twisted in concentration as he seemed to think. “They came, and they shot my parents, and they took my sister and I.” He slipped his hand into Thomas’s own, and knitted their fingers. “Her name was Lizzie, and now I guess it’s Sonya? I don’t know, but she’s living with Harriet somewhere down in Oregon. We weren’t too close.” After that, everyone was quite for a while.

Minho stood, and looked at his wristwatch, kept from the Glade. “Hey, guys, we’ve been here too long. It’s almost seven.” Teresa let out a faint “oh shit,” and Thomas gathered his bag and fished out his flashlight, handing it to Minho. “I brought one just in case,” he said, and Newt sighed dramatically. “What a lifesaver,” he flashed him a bright smile, which was returned.   
  


The flashlight made a soft click as it was turned on, and the white beam sent a sting of pain across their vision. “Warning next time,” Newt grumbled.

Minho swung the beam around. Teresa had her neck craned up, looking through the branches into the sky. “Full moon,” she murmured. Newt pushed at her shoulder, and her head snapped back down. “Watch out for werewolves,” he teased, and she let out a scoff, and then a laugh.   
  


“Come on, guys.” Minho was already moving, the light of the flashlight carving a path through the dusk. Newt rolled his eyes. “Bossy, bossy.” Thomas trudged ahead, chatting lightly with Newt. But he was stopped short, and he swatted at Minho to stop too.

Teresa froze, and Newt was still as he whispered, barely there, “what was it?” Thomas shook his head slowly. “I just heard something. Like running, snapping twigs and the leaves and things.”

He grappled the flashlight away from Minho, and held it shakily in front of him. He heard Teresa grab and grip a long, thick branch from the ground, and Newt pat around on the ground until he found a rough rock, and Minho shift, drawing his fists up. 

In the brilliant beam, something moved. It’s eyes found Thomas’s and his body was suddenly wracked with fear. The creature bared it’s teeth, and snarled. The sound traveled to Thomas’s very bones.

It was hunched, almost human, with it’s body and blonde hair, but with strange, pointed ears, a ridged brow, and wild fur down it’s face. Claws snarled out of it’s hands, and feet. It’s eyes flared blue, and it roared.

Thomas was frozen, Teresa let out a piercing shriek, Newt was screaming swears, and Minho was just repeating ‘what the fuck’ over and over. Suddenly, the creature lurched forward, towards Minho, teeth exposed.

Minho, screaming, swung his fist and punched the thing in the jaw, so hard spit drooled between his teeth and it lurched sideways. Thomas felt almost woozy with horror, but remembered that Minho has always had a _mean_ right hook.

This seemed to snap everyone out of their terrified stupor. Teresa screamed, again, and brought the tree branch over her head and down on the thing’s skull, over and over again, in a way that seemed familiar to Thomas. Thomas and Minho went close, landing kicks and punches on it’s legs and face. Newt threw his rock at it, and it hit the thing’s wrist, a sharp crack pushing through the trees. The thing howled, like a wolf, piercing and eerie, and then snarled again. It ran off through the underbrush, and Teresa, breathing heavily, dropped her branch.   
  


There was a pause. Thomas broke it by saying, a little hysterically, “I hope you all saw that too.” There was a chorus of “No shit!’s” and then Thomas slumped.

There were long, bleeding scratches against his back and shoulders, and his knuckles were stinging. Teresa had frantic claw marks all down her arms from the thing trying to stop the branch. Newt had raw, bleeding hands from throwing roughly hewn, sharp rocks. Minho had scratches over his face and neck, and his knuckles were dripping blood down his fingers. 

“Christ,” Newt moaned, and then rubbed his hands over his hair. 


	5. Aftermath

After the forest, they had snuck into Thomas’s home, past his sleeping dad, and into the bathroom. Thomas rooted through the medicine cabinets, gathering bandages, antiseptic, and hydrogen peroxide into his arms. Carefully, he sat Minho down on the toilet, sitting towards the tank as Thomas inspected his injuries.

His wounds were the worst of the group’s, raking claw marks down his back and shoulders, thin but deep scratches across his neck. Blood soaked through his blue shirt, sticking to his back as he carefully removed the garment.

Thomas sucked his teeth as he worked, wiping away the dry, crusted blood and pouring peroxide on the cuts. “Jesus,” Minho all but yelped, gnawing on his red stained knuckles as he tensed against the stinging pain.

Thomas applied the antiseptic cream, and then the bandages, using butterfly strips to hold the skin together and then normal, bigger bandaids. He fetched Minho a new shirt, told him to go to his room, and then it was Teresa’s turn.

She held out her arms, blood dripping from the frantic, animalistic slices up her forearms and across her hands. He, again, wiped the blood and dirt away and then poured hydrogen peroxide. She hissed, and clenched her hands, but didn’t move. Thomas smiled at her. “Good job.” She smiled back, faintly, as he slathered on the antiseptic and gently wrapped gauze. He gave her an old sweater, and sent her out with Minho.

Newt took her place with a heavy sigh, and dutifully held his hands out. “What a night,” he said tiredly. “You’d think we’ve seen everything.” Nest huffed a laugh, hair shining white-blond in the fluorescence of the bathroom light. Thomas hummed, wiping peroxide over his palms.

He pressed a kiss to Newt’s knuckles when he finished wrapping the gauze. Newt, in turn, pressed his mouth to Thomas’s temple, under a curl of sandy brown hair, and they stayed like that for a moment. “Alright, your turn,” he said, ushering Thomas to his seat on the toilet. “Let’s clean you up.”

Thomas had deep cuts, running down his arms and shoulders, frantic and jerked. Newt wiped down his injuries with the hydrogen peroxide, and then applied a bit of antiseptic. He placed butterfly bandages across the deepest parts, and when he was done he pat Thomas on the cheek and said, “Let’s go to bed.” Thomas stood, and gently bumped his hip to Newt’s. “Yes, please.”

Thomas ended up lending Newt a sweater, and he himself wore a faded hoodie. He flopped down, sandwiched between Newt and Teresa, the latter already snoring and curled against Minho, who was fast asleep. Thomas turned, pressing his nose against Newt’s collarbone. “Goodnight,” he said faintly, Newt replying just as quietly. “Night, Tommy.”   
  


In the morning, Noah opened his son’s door to see him squished between three people, two boys and a girl. He just shook his head, closed the door, and started on breakfast.   
  


Thomas padded down the stairs, a bit sheepishly. “Hey, dad,” he said. Noah just smiled. “Hello, and tell your friends that they can grab a plate,” spooning scrambled eggs onto a platter. Thomas shot him an inscrutable expression, and then backtracked up the stairs. Teresa was sitting up, bleary eyes, her hair tangled around her face, snapping something at Minho who was mumbling to her with his face under a pillow. “Hey, guys, breakfast is ready.”

Minho rolled off the bed, hitting the floor with a muted thump. “Thank god, I’m fucking starving.” He then climbed to his feet with difficulty. Teresa rolled her eyes, punched Newt in the arm to wake him up, and the padded after Minho, pushing her hair into a ponytail with the elastic on her wrist. Newt jerked awake, and groaned out a “that bitch,” before rolling out of Thomas’s bed, pressing their lips together briefly, and then following Teresa. Thomas smiled, and then hurried after him, the scabbed over claw marks down his arms burning faintly.   
  


Noah faced Thomas as he loaded bacon onto his plate. “Are you ready for today?” Thomas’s eyebrows creased. “What?” Noah sighed. “For the placement test, son. At the high school.” Thomas relaxed a bit.

“Oh, yeah. I just forgot for a second there. We’re all going to go down at 11:30.” Minho nodded. “Yeah, although I’m a bit nervous. I don’t remember going to regular school.” Teresa nodded, and Newt hummed in agreement. “Just a bunch of boring tests and bloodwork, puzzles and stuff.” Teresa shoveled a forkful of eggs into her mouth.

“The stuff they had me doing was really intensive. Puzzles, history, math, science, whatever. Lots of books too.” She swallowed her eggs, and snapped a stalk of bacon in half with her teeth. “I think we had the same course-load.” Thomas said thoughtfully, and that was the end of the conversation.   
  


At 11:13, Everyone climbed into the old blue Jeep. His father tossed him the keys, and smiled softly. Thomas raises his hands in thanks, and turned the ignition. It spluttered for a second before purring.

Newt was next to him, in shotgun, and Teresa in the backseat with Minho. “Are y’all ready?” Thomas said, pulling out of the driveway, he had up google maps, because no matter how much deja vu he felt when he saw the town, he could not, for the life of him, find his way to the school. Newt looked nervous. “It’s now or never,” Minho huffed. “I’d choose never.” Teresa whacked him. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

They pulled into the school parking lot, and argued for a little on where to go. “Just follow the bloody students, god,” Newt shouted after a heated moment. “That’s actually a good idea,” Minho grinned. “Shut up, I know,” Newt stepped out of the car. Teresa muttered something under her breath and slipped out, Minho following her. Thomas was the last out, locking the car with a hesitant beep. He let out a breath and followed the trickle of students into a classroom.   
  


In the end, the test was laughably easy, although Thomas guessed on the history section. Everything he knew about history had been fabricated, so he felt that he was warranted. The science was uncomplicated and the math intermediate, and he scrawled out an essay in 30 minutes. He was done in an hour, although during the hour his arms ached and itched, sending deep flares of pain when he wrote. He pitied his friends, with their varying degrees of pain.

When he turned the packet in to the teacher, he noticed he wasn’t the first one done. There was one already in the basket, and he squinted at the name, and almost laughed, of course it was her. ‘Teresa’, printed neat and slanted, cursive. He pushed his packet into the basket and left the classroom, like they had been instructed to do, sitting down next to her on a bench by a drinking fountain. “That was easy,” she remarked, and Thomas laughed. It echoed down the empty hallway. “Yeah, it really was. Although, I flubbed the history one. Didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about.” She laughed this time. “Same, although math gave me some problems. Had to guess on a few.” It was there they sat, talking lightly in the quiet hallway, Minho and Newt joining in after not too long. More and more students trickled out, until the redheaded teacher said that they could leave. Thomas left with a strange, light feeling in his chest.


	6. Answers

After the placement test, they decided to go to Minho’s house, to try and find out what was in the woods last night. In the car, Minho was making a racket.   
  


“All I’m saying is that it could be a werewolf,” he all but shrieked over Newt’s protests. “But werewolves don’t bloody exist, you airheaded shank.” Minho leveled him a glare. “We don’t know that! Besides, what’s your brilliant theory on what it is?” Newt settled back into his seat. “Maybe it was an out of hand prank. I don’t know,” he added hastily at the end. 

Teresa huffed. “Funny prank,” she said, pulling up her sleeves. Her gouges were scabbed over and puffy, pink at the edges. She grimaced, and looked up. “Funny prank.” She said again, blue eyes stormy. Newt shot Thomas an indecipherable look.  
  


When they pulled up to Minho’s house, Thomas noticed the lineup of cars and motorcycles. He raised his eyebrow. “Sister got some friends?” He asked Minho. “I guess,” he frowned, pulling out his key. The front door swung open, and Minho was the first in, Thomas following after, Newt and Teresa behind him.

When they stepped into the foyer, five pairs of burning eyes swiveled towards them. Thomas felt his face drain, his hands going cold. “Minho,” the Asian girl from his first day back said lightly, face nervous. Minho dropped his key in the bowl and walked into his house slowly, tensely, almost predatory. Newt gripped at Thomas’s shoulder, and Teresa stood, friendly looking, by the wall as she took in the home.

“Hey Kira,” Minho said carefully. “These your friends?” She nodded, and smiled nervously. “Hey Stiles,” she said faintly, and Thomas numbly gave a little wave. Thomas’s welcome party, or at least some of them, had looks on their faces like Minho had just intruded on something. He felt Newt’s fingers curl into his shoulder, and looked at him. Newt jerked his head, barely perceptible, to the right. Thomas followed his gaze to another angry blond boy, not the one from his first day, who was sporting a makeshift wrist brace, an ice pack on his head, and pale bruises flowering over his arms and face, a darker bruise over his jaw. He was standing a little awkwardly, favoring his left leg. 

Thomas turned to look at Teresa, who’s eyes were narrowed and zero-ed in on the wounded boy. It was tense in the house, but it shattered as Minho clapped. “Well, we’re just going to, uh, go to my room now. Have fun,” he said to Kira, wearing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.   
  


“Okay, what the fuck,” Teresa started, pulling a rubber band off her bony wrist. “You saw that guy right? Exact same injuries. Same hair color as that thing, same height. Something’s up.” She poked at Newt, offering up the rubber band. He rolled his eyes, but sat down on Minho’s bed, Teresa sitting between his legs. He began carding his hands through her long hair, braiding it.

Minho gave them a weird look, but agreed. Thomas gnawed at a thumbnail. “I don’t know, the werewolf theory is becoming more and more believable. This guy, if he’s the same creature, attacked us on the full moon. Same injuries the next day, although they already look half-healed. I get a weird feeling in my gut whenever I think too hard about it, like I felt when I came home. What if everyone else down there is a werewolf?”

Teresa looked at him with wide eyes, her head pulled back as Newt braided. “You’re saying that you think you knew that they were werewolves before the Maze?” Thomas nodded. “It sounds batshit, but yeah. I think they’re werewolves.”   
  


Downstairs, there was a distant crash and swear. Exchanging wide eyed glances, Minho and Thomas crept out of the room, and to the stair’s banister. They peeked over it as the swearing grew louder.

“Motherfucker. They know, Scott. They know it was me.” It was the injured boy. Scott put a placating hand on his neck, and Thomas swore his eyes flashed red. “That’s not ideal, but we’ll have to work with it. How much damage did you do?” The boy looked miserable. “I clawed them all up pretty badly, except for the blond boy, he’s the one who threw rocks and broke my wrist. Killer aim, though.”

A voice interjected itself, a girl with coiffed blonde hair and a leather jacket on. “I can’t believe you got your shit rocked by Stiles and his scrawny friends, Jackson.” another person chimed in, the brunette Allison. “They’re more than capable of ‘rocking your shit,’ Erica. Have you seen them? They’re all jacked, even the girl.”

Thomas exchanged an amused glance with Minho, but resumed his attention as a deeper, blunter voice said, “We just need to be more careful from now on. They don’t know anything definitively.”

With that, Minho and Thomas crept back into his room, and shut the door silently. “Yeah, they’re a hundred percent werewolves.” Thomas said, a little numbly.


	7. Now what?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey y’all- so so so sorry for the late update, just lost a bit of traction and didn’t know what to do next.

After the night at Minho’s house, Thomas spent a lot of time researching. He also spent a lot of time preparing for school, which he would be going to for the first time in the morning. He _also_ spent a lot of time with Newt, laughing and talking and chaste kisses and making casual conversations with his dad. Noah and Newt got on like fire to timber. The gouges down his arms scabbed over and healed, leaving shiny white scars.

Currently, it’s 11:00 at night, and they’re asleep, Thomas’s chin hooked over Newt’s shoulder, their arms entangled. Noah opens his son’s door to collect dirty glasses, and smiles softly into the darkness.

The next morning, they were up bright and early. Thomas was slipping on some jeans and a green sweater as Newt sat up, blearily. “School today,” he said. Newt just groaned, and was half-asleep as Thomas threw another pair of jeans, smacking him in the face.

He cackled as Newt choked, startled, and hurried down the stairs to grab an apple or something for breakfast. He had to pick up Teresa and Minho soon, he remembered vaguely, looking at his wristwatch.

His dad handed him two pieces of buttered toast and two granola bars, and then twenty dollars. “Breakfast for you and Newt, and twenty bucks for lunch. If I’m not home by dinner, use the leftovers for pizza.” Then he drew Thomas in for a crushing hug, and slapped his shoulder affectionately.

Newt came padding down the stairs, wearing tan cargo pants and a red hoodie, and took his portion of toast from Thomas with a soft ‘thank you’ and a kiss pressed to his cheek. Noah also drew him into a bone-creaking hug, and ruffled his blond hair. He gestured the two boys to the front door. 

“Better hurry up, don’t want to leave your friends hanging. Have a good day, son” Smiling, Thomas picked up his backpack, and then grabbed Newt’s hand as they slipped out the door. ”you too, dad.” He said as he locked the door with his key. The revving of the Jeeps’s engine, and then the fading purr of it leaving.  
  


Thomas pulled up to the Yukimura residence three minutes later, and Minho vaulted himself inside. “You ready, Greenie?” He asked, a grin pulling at his mouth. Thomas rolled his eyes. “We’re all Greenies now.” Newt pointed from the passenger seat as they pulled into a suburban neighborhood. “This is Teresa’s house.”

He honked the horn, and a haggard looking Teresa stumbled out, in a light blue sweater and leggings. She wrenched open the door, and slung her backpack to the floor. “Not a word,” she said as she slammed the door and buckled the seatbelt. “I woke up late,” she relented at the pressure of the three boy’s questioning looks. Minho laughed. “Good job,” he said lightly. She huffed, pulling her hair into a nice ponytail, the shorter pieces framing her face.

“My alarm fucking died, and my sister’s a dick.” She turned around a raised her middle finger at the general direction of her house. Thomas laughed, and eased the car into a parking space. “Lets go,” he said, and it carries tones of past leadership, something in the way he said it sounding well worn. Teresa kicked open her door with a bang, and Thomas yelped. “Careful, woman,” he said, shouldering his bag.   
  


Thomas looked at his schedule, a little lost. “What the,” he breathed, and Newt looked at his curiously. “Oh nice, we have the same P.E, Science, and A.B.” Thomas glanced at the numbers above the doors to classrooms in the hallway he was standing in. “Wait, our first class is Science, right?” Newt nodded, bemused. “Yeah, C4.” “Well shit. We’re in fucking F wing.”   
  


Somehow, they managed to find all of their classes. They got stares and whispers as they went through the day, people exchanging gossip and theories on what happened to them. Thomas felt like a minor celebrity, and yet his stomach pulled every time the name WICKED was brought up, like the bullet that furrowed through his stomach knew, and the scar twinged uncomfortably.

In Science, the only class with all of them, Thomas had to snuff his laughter as Teresa’s name was called. “Deandra Clovers?” Teresa raised her hand, scowling. “Present.” Thomas exchanges a gleeful look with Minho and Newt. ‘Deandra?’ They mouthed at her. ‘It’s better than fucking DeeDee,’ she mouthed back.

Other than that, School was laughably easy. P.E was fun, Thomas, Minho, and Newt all in the same period, poor Teresa stuck in Math. Thomas and Minho took turns seeing who could run the fastest lap, and Minho often won. Newt just smiles ruefully and watched at a jog, his leg twinging painfully as he did.

There was a bit of an incident in the locker room, a boy exclaiming “Dude,” a clamoring, and then the observance of thirty boys at Thomas’s torso: the carved scars and the messily healed bullet wound, the raking white lines down his arms, the chunk of skin missing at the base of his neck. He stood, a bit uncomfortably, feeling like an animal at the zoo, and then pulled a shirt on. The same happened to Newt, and Minho, and probably Teresa, their latticework of scars put on display. He grimaced at the thought, and challenged Minho to another race. 

Lunch was hectic, waiting in a line for food and eating it in a secluded corner of the lawn with his friends. A few people approached them, asking questions about what happened, but Teresa, Minho, and Newt stared at them until they left. Thomas laughed and talked and ate on the grass, and it felt nice and a little nostalgic, a little sad. 

He got through the day pretty smoothly, and dropped his friends off at their houses. “Have fun,” he called after them as they laughed, and Minho flipped him off, arms laden with homework. Teresa scowled, and basically told him to get fucked, but in much more creative terms. Howling with laughter, Thomas drove back home.


End file.
